


A Well-Dressed Man

by TheCheerfulPornographer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Folklore, Awkward Boners, Clothing, Drunkenness, Fairy Tales, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Memories, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot, also the power of handjobs, the power of stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a fairytale.  There is no such thing as magic.  And even the nicest suit is still only a suit.</p>
<p>Trust me, my dear Doctor.  Would I lie to you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, so this was supposed to be the short intro to a PWP. Then it turned into... something else.
> 
> There are excessively-detailed Cardassian grammar notes in the lower comment, if anybody cares.

"Once upon a time, many centuries ago, there was a tailor." That's how the story always starts.

The expensive fabric stretches between Garak's fingers, pulled expertly taut; the needle flashes through his fingers, over and under, piercing through. The thread spools away beneath him, and his memory is drawn back with it, back and back and back, to the old Cardassian fairytale that Garak first heard when he was just a boy.

(It's either that, or think about the body that this coat will be draped over. The shape of it — the familiar solid lines of those shoulders, the curves and muscles of those arms. The particular weight and color and texture of that flesh.

Garak really doesn't want to dwell on that. So he turns his mind back, and lets Mila's voice ring out inside his head.)

\-------------

Once upon a time, many centuries ago, there was a tailor. This tailor, whose name was Nurak, was a good man and a dutiful citizen of the State, who accepted his station in life and always did his duty. He lived in a tiny town on the edge of a great desert, far away on the furthermost frontier.

Now, nearby to this town in those days there was an enclave of khav'vichkah —

"Mila, what's that?"

Hush, Garak. What have I told you about interrupting when your elders are speaking?

"I'm sorry, naan'e."

The khav'vichkah are a race of magical beings who lived in the deepest deserts of the Northern Continent. They're said to look exactly like People, but their skin is the color of rocks and desert sand, and they have no chufah, and no brow ridges on their heads. Instead, their faces are smooth and round, like desert stones. They are taller than people, and more slender, and they can run lightly on the hot desert sand so fast that People cannot even see them.

"Oooh, I want one. Can I get one for a pet?"

No, silly. The khav'vichkah aren't real. They're just a story. And even if they were real, you couldn't have one for a pet. We don't have room.

"Oh, okay."

Anyways, near this tailor's town, there was an enclave of khav'vichkah hidden away inside a steep, deep canyon. Nurak had heard tales of the beautiful and mysterious khav'vichkah all of his life, ever since he was a child sitting at his mother's knee. So one day, on the 50th anniversary of his birth, he took it into his mind to go and try to see a khavichk for himself. It was a fine hot day and the sun shone bright and red, so Nurak closed up his shop for the first time in many months, packed himself up a little food and some water, and set out into the desert to find the khav'vichkah.

"How did he know where to find them?"

Garak!

"Sorry, naan'e."

Naogh'i, sometimes I wonder if there's hope for you at all. Anyways, he found it by... following landmarks that were mentioned in the village tales, things like that. The _point_ is that eventually he arrived at the mouth of the hidden canyon where the khav'vichkah camp was located. He saw smoke rising from the khav'vichkah cooking fires, and when he listened very carefully he could hear the babbling of their speech.

"Oh, they can speak?"

Yes, the khav'vichkah are almost as smart as People, though they don't know how to write. Some of them even know how to speak Kardasi, as you'd know if you let me continue without interrupting me every 15 seconds.

So Nurak heard the noises of the camp, and he slowly crept closer and closer to the canyon's mouth, trying hard to stay silent and keep to the shadows. He wanted so badly to see a khavichk! He'd heard tales all his life of how lovely they were, khavichka'en and khavichka'in both — for it is said that the khav'vichkah are so lovely that any one of them can enthrall a Person simply by smiling at him. So Nurak thought that this would make a good birth-day present to himself, if he could see a lovely khavichk on this day.

He was so excited, and so intent on his goal, that he failed to pay adequate attention to his surroundings — which is a mistake that you must always remember not to make, Garak. Always stay alert, and double-check before you step! Anyway, Nurak was creeping around and not really watching where he stepped, and suddenly the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he realized that he had trodden directly on a pressure-plate. He heard a crashing and a booming, and then suddenly a giant boulder came rolling down and fell right on top of his head! And Nurak was knocked completely unconscious, and collapsed onto the desert sand.

"It was a trap, wasn't it?"

That's right, it was a trap set by the khav'vichkah, to catch any intruders that might come creeping around their camp. Which is exactly what it did.

"Did they kill Nurak and eat him?"

My goodness, naogh'i. You do have quite the imagination, don't you?

No, in fact, these khavichka'n did not kill Nurak and eat him. When he woke up, he had a terrible headache and he couldn't see out of one eye, but it all balanced out because he also got his wish. For there standing there over him, holding a slender spear that crackled with magic along the tip, was a slender, golden-skinned, beautiful khavichka'i. He was dressed only in a sort of loincloth made of fur, and a necklace of polished bone that he wore around his neck. 

This khavichka'i looked at Nurak, and he didn't even have to smile, because Nurak was immediately enthalled. He thought the man was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen, and he immediately desired to possess him. Nurak knew, suddenly and completely and without any room for doubt, that if he could not keep this khavichka'i with him, his life would no longer be worth living.

He tried to move his hands, and realized that they were tied to a pole behind him. He tried to move his feet, and realized that they were tightly bound. As soon as the khavichka'i saw that Nurak was awake, he shouted out something in the khav'vichkah language, and three khavichka'n ran into the room. All three of these were khavichka'en, who are if anything more beautiful and fair even then the males are, but despite their great beauty, Nurak only had eyes for the khavichka'i, the first one that he had seen. 

He felt distracted and enthralled, as if he'd fallen under a spell. He was so taken up in staring at the lovely khavichka'i that he forgot to even test the strength of his bonds, or starting scheming an escape plan. He only watched them speak, with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

"I don't like Nurak. He's kinda dumb."

For the last time, hush! Or I'll stop telling the story, and you can go back to your chores. 

Besides, Nurak is supposed to be dumb. It's a fairytale; the whole point is to learn from someone's failure.

Anyways.

The four khavichka'n spoke to one another, in their own language that Nurak could not understand. After a few moments, they seemed to come to some agreement, and they fell silent. Nurak's khavichka'i turned back toward him, and then he spoke.

"What is your name?" 

Nurak was startled to hear him speak Kardasi, but his sudden infatuation had made him reckless and foolish, so he readily responded. "My name is Nurak. What's yours?"

The khavichka'i looked at him with curiosity. "My name is Aterareanhui," he said, and the strange babble of his name sounded like music to Nurak's ears. "Why have you come creeping around our encampment, hiding and sneaking like a spy?"

"I'm not a spy," Nurak protested, "and I intended your people no harm. I came only because it's my 50th birthday today, and I wanted to catch a glimpse of a khavichk for myself."

Aterareanhui pointed the spear at him sternly. "Why?"

Nurak looked at him, and found that he was speechless. Eventually, he gathered what few wits he possessed, and said, "Because I had heard that the khav'vichkah were the most beautiful beings in the world, and I wanted to see if it was true for myself."

"Well?" Aterareanhui said, looking at him closely. "And what is your conclusion?"

"As soon as I saw you," Nurak said, "I knew immediately that it was true." As I said, infatuation had loosened his tongue and made him reckless. And who knows, perhaps his head injury had something to do with it as well. "These three khavichka'en are incredibly lovely, but your beauty surpasses them all. You are by far the loveliest thing that I have ever seen."

Aterareanhui stared at him for a long moment, without speaking. Nurak held his breath, uncertain whether he was about to be tortured, or even killed. After awhile, the khavichka'i seemed to come to some conclusion, and he turned back and said something to the three khavichka'en. 

They seemed to argue among themselves for a moment; one khavichka'e, who was speaking quite loudly and making violent gestures, eventually turned away and stalked out of the cave. A few moments later, after a calmer exchange of words, the other two followed, leaving Aterareanhui alone with Nurak.

He thrust his spear toward Nurak, who managed to keep himself from flinching. He might have been a fool, but he was still a Person, and at least he had some pride. To Nurak's surprise, no razor-sharp edge came stabbing through his chest; instead, it deftly sliced open the bonds that hobbled Nurak's feet. A few seconds later, his hands were freed as well.

Aterareanhui gestured for him to stand. "Come with me," he said.

Nurak followed him out of the cave. It was night, now; he must have been unconscious for some time. He couldn't make out too many details of the khav'vichkah encampment, but he saw silhouettes moving about, and smelled meat being roasted over the fires. Somewhere in the darkness, a khavichka'e was singing in a high, clear voice. Her song was so pure and so sad that it brought tears to Nurak's eyes, and made his heart ache in his chest.

Aterareanhui led Nurak around the edge of the camp, to the place where the canyon became narrow. "Follow exactly in my footsteps," he warned Nurak, "for there are many other traps along this passageway, and I don't want to waste any more healing potion on you." You see, among their other magical abilities, the khav'vichkah had the knowledge of how to make a healing drink that could cure any kind of illness or disease. This was why Nurak wasn't any worse off, despite having just been hit in the head by a very large rock.

I'm sorry, what was that, Garak? Did you have something to say?

That's what I thought.

Anyways, the tailor followed carefully in Aterareanhui's footsteps, staring longingly at his backside the entire time. All he could think of was that he didn't want to leave; not if it meant being separated from Aterareanhui. But at the same time, he knew that they would never let him say. 

He had to come up with a way to see Aterareanhui again.

When they finally exited the canyon and Aterareanhui led him past the last few traps, Nurak turned and said, "You must let me give you a gift. I want to show my gratitude for healing me, and for letting me go free."

Aterareanhui looked at him curiously. "There's no need," he said.

"Really," said Nurak. "I insist. In fact, honor demands it. If you don't allow me to give you a gift, my name will be forever in disgrace because I have not repaid you. You wouldn't want that, would you?" This was a lie, of course. There is no obligation of debt repayment between People and other beings. But Nurak thought this was a way to see the khavichka'i again.

Finally, Aterareanhui said, "Okay. You may give me a gift, then."

"Excellent!" said Nurak. "Only, I don't have anything appropriate with me right now. Such actions as you have done for me today deserve a fine present indeed." And he pretended to think, although he already knew what he was going to propose. Finally, Nurak said, "I am merely a humble tailor, but I can do this: I will make you a fine shirt, sewn from the lightest, softest, most beautiful fabric that you've ever seen. I will bring it back to you here in one cycle of the moon, if you will allow me to do so."

Aterareanhui shook his head. "Now that we have been discovered here," he said, "the camp will have to move, for that has always been our way. We won't be here any longer, in one cycle of the moon."

"Come to my house, then," Nurak said, for this had been his real plan all along. He'd known that the camp would have to move. "Come and see me in the village, and I will give my present to you then." To Nurak's great glee, Aterareanhui nodded his assent. 

"I will do this thing," he said. "In one cycle of the moon, I will come to you at your house." He pointed his spear at Nurak again, in warning. "But if anyone else is there, lurking around your home," he said, "or if your house contains any weapons, I will know, and I will not come. So be alone, and unarmed."

"Oh, I will," Nurak said. "Believe me, I have no need for weapons. And why would I want to share you with anyone else?" For already Nurak had become jealous, and wished to keep Aterareanhui all to himself. "You'll see," he said. "I will not disappoint you with my gift." Aterareanhui nodded, and then he vanished into the night. As soon as he disappeared, Nurak felt a heaviness and a sadness settle in his heart, and he knew that it would forever be so, as long as he was separate from the khavichka'i with whom he had become so deeply infatuated.

So Nurak went home, and that very same night, before he even changed the bandage on his head, he got out his very best fabric and prepared to make the best shirt that he had ever sewed. He decided on a tunic design, thinking that the shape would look lovely on Aterareanhui's slender, graceful form.

For the next couple of weeks, Nurak measured and cut and stitched. He cast all of his other work aside, and poured every waking moment into working on Aterareanhui's tunic. He barely even left his house.

With every single stitch that he sewed, Nurak spoke. He told the tunic all about his desire for Aterareanhui, and of the way he wanted the khavichka'i to stay by his side always, and of intense sadness he felt at being parted from his love. He poured his heart into the fabric, and he watered the threads well with his tears. And though he was now working with only one good eye, Nurak applied every single bit of skill and effort and concentration that he had gained over the years, and it more than made up for his lack of perfect vision. 

He worked and worked, and the tunic grew lovelier and lovelier every day. The fabric was light and soft and smooth; the cut was perfect, and every stitch fell neatly and precisely into line. The days seemed to fly by as Nurak worked, hardly taking a moment to eat or even sleep. Finally, exactly one day before the end of the moon-cycle, the tunic was done. Aterareanhui's gift was finished.

Nurak hung it carefully on his sewing mannequin, and made his entire home and workshop clean and ready. As the sun rose on the day that Aterareanhui was supposed to come, Nurak paced back and forth, unable to sleep or eat. He did nothing else all day but worry and fret, and fear that the khavichka'i wouldn't show. 

Finally, the sun went down. Just as the moon rose up over the Eastern hills, Nurak heard a quiet tapping at the door. He ran over and threw it open, and Aterareanhui slipped into his house, movingly as quickly and as silent as the breeze.

Nurak thought that Aterareanhui's presence immediately made his humble home feel warmer, brighter, and basically better in every possible way. Any lingering doubts about his course of action fled, and Nurak became firmly resolved to carry out his plan.

He went over to his mannequin, and took down the lovely tunic. As he did so, Nurak pricked his finger with a pin that he had hidden in his other hand, and one single drop of his heart's-blood fell onto the front of the tunic, right over the heart. The droplet of blood formed a perfect circle and blended in perfectly, like it was part of the pattern of the cloth.

This was the one thing that the tunic had been missing, but now it was perfect. Now its power was complete.

Nurak lifted it from the dress form, and handed it to Aterareanhui. Without any shame, Aterareanhui removed his loincloth, and Nurak watched it fall onto the ground. Then Aterareanhui put on the tunic.

As soon as the cloth settled around Aterareanhui's shoulders, the drop of blood over his heart began to glow. The khavichka'i looked down at the fabric, feeling it move around him, and then he looked up at Nurak. And then, without another word, he fell into Nurak's arms and declared his undying love and devotion.

Oh, I see that look on your face, don't think I don't! It's a fairytale, okay? You have to suspend your disbelief. You see, through all of the tears and all of the words that he had spoken while he was sewing, Nurak had woven a powerful love spell into the cloth. And when he gave the tunic a drop of his heart's-blood, that spell had been sealed and activated. When Aterareanhui put the tunic on, Nurak's love spell clouded his memory and enthralled his mind, and he had no desire left in his heart other than to be Nurak's servant and stay by his side forever.

Aterareanhui fell down at Nurak's feet, and kissed them, and he said, "What is your wish for me now, chethk'i? Only tell me, and I will do anything that you say."

Nurak was overjoyed, and he said, "I wish for you to stay here with me, and live in my house, and promise me that you will never leave." And he went over to the door and turned the lock, so that nobody could come in or go out. Aterareanhui bowed his head and agreed to stay, for as long as Nurak would have him. And Nurak pulled him up and kissed him, and that was that.

For quite awhile, they lived that way. Aterareanhui stayed in Nurak's home, never asking to go out, and he never removed the magic tunic — for the khav'vichkah do not become dirty, and do not need to bathe in the way that People do. If any of the villagers noticed Aterareanhui's presence, they did not say anything about him to Nurak. Nor did they ask how the tailor had lost the vision in one eye; though they did start calling him Nurak Duri'vok, after the one-eyed lizards that lived around those parts.

Things went on this way for about three years, and Nurak was perfectly content to have them continue on forever. But of course, such a situation could not last.

One day, three years later, Nurak went shopping at the market. As he was standing there picking out fruits and meats, he overheard two other men from the village talking. "...biggest jevonite deposit discovered in three decades," the one man said, "and the best part is that it's not 300 leagues from here."

The other man tlikked in excitement. "Just imagine," he said, "how much power and influence that will bring here, if we are the closest village."

"Exactly." The first man leaned in closer, and lowered his voice so that Nurak had to strain to hear. "There's just one problem. They've got to get rid of those damned khav'vichkah, first."

Nurak dropped a yomi fruit, and had to scramble to pick it up. He looked up, hoping that he hadn't attracted the two men's attention.

"Why? What have the brownlings done?"

"They've been attacking the survey site ever since it was set up. They build traps that catch and injure workers, things like that." The man waved his hand. "Mere annoyances, really. But apparently the deposit is located on some sort of sacred site, or some kind of nonsense like that, so the Government has decided to just wipe them all out and be done with it. Otherwise, they're only going to keep on causing problems."

Upon hearing this, Nurak's heart was wracked with fear and anguish, for he was a sentimental man. He set down his shopping-basket and left the store all in a rush, and ran the whole way home. Even though Aterareanhui would be safe inside his home, Nurak still thought that the khav'vichkah were beautiful and fine, and his heart pained him at the idea of their entire tribe being wiped out.

When he got to his little house, he paced back and forth in front of the door for quite some time, trying to figure out what he should say. Eventually, he toughened up his scales and went inside, where Aterareanhui was sitting and looking out the window. They embraced, and kissed, and then Nurak told him about what he had heard.

When he heard about the threat to his people, Aterareanhui's golden skin became pale, and he shook. He paced back and forth, hitting his fist against his palm. "Tell me where the camp is," Nurak said, trying to calm him. "Tell me how to find your people, and I will run and warn them."

Aterareanhui shook his head. "I cannot tell you how to find them, for I don't know where they are," he said. "They might have moved camp several times by now."

Nurak hung his head in despair. "It's hopeless, then," he said. "There's nothing we can do."

Aterareanhui hesitated, biting at his lip. Finally, he said, "That's not true. I could find them."

"No." Nurak's reply was immediate. "No way. They'll be out looking for khavichka'n. They'll find you, and they'll kill you."

"I can elude them. I am fast, and I'm one of the best trackers among my people. And we khav'vichkah have ways of passing by unseen." Aterareanhui looked down at Nurak beseechingly. "Please, chethk'i," he said. "Please, let me go and do this thing. Let me find my people, and let me warn them. I cannot stand by and let them be destroyed."

Nurak's head spun and his hands shook, and his heart leapt up within him, for he did not want to lose his love. Finally, though, he nodded and told him, "Okay. Go." 

Aterareanhui reached underneath their bed and took out the box containing the few things that he'd brought with him. His spear, his strange black-blue knife (which, Nurak now realized, was carved from jevonite), his white bone necklace, and his fur loincloth. He took up the spear and slipped the knife into his pocket, and he tied the white bone necklace back around his neck, but he did not remove his tunic. Nurak watched, and his vision grew dark with grief, for he knew that Aterareanhui would probably not be coming back.

Aterareanhui walked over to the door, and raised his hand to lift the latch. It stopped short, as if it had hit a wall. He frowned and tried again to open the door, but he couldn't. His body refused to move.

Nurak understood in a flash exactly what the problem was. Despite his words, the love spell was still listening to Nurak's heart's desire, and his heart's desire was that his lover should not leave. He wasn't able to change the way he felt; there was only one possible solution.

Taking up his favorite pair of sewing scissors, he strode over to Aterareanhui and, without a word, began to cut the tunic. He cut through one side and then the other, and then he pulled the magic tunic off of Aterareanhui's body, and let it fall onto the floor.

As soon as the tunic was removed, the spell was lifted. Aterareanhui stared at Nurak with a look of horror and shock; slowly his face transformed into an expression of intense loathing. "What have you done to me?" he spat at Nurak. "What have you made me do?" The khavichka'i turned and ran naked out the door. As soon as his feet touched the desert sand, he disappeared from view, and Nurak sank to his knees and wept.

...

...

"...Why are you stopping, naan'e? That isn't the end of the story, is it? We haven't even seen Nurak be punished yet!"

No, it's not the end. But there is not that much more to tell.

Aterareanhui made it back to his people and warned them, and they were able to evade capture for awhile. They kept up a campaign of guerilla warfare against the miners, because they were so foolishly attached to this particular piece of land; they ended up killing several miners and blowing up at least one transport vessel, but the State inevitably triumphed in the end. 

Near the end of the campaign, Aterareanhui was captured and interrogated. During his interrogation, he revealed that it was Nurak who had warned him about the Government's plans to wipe out the khav'vichkah. By his foolish actions, therefore, Nurak was directly responsible for the loss of some quite expensive equipment, as well as several miners' lives.

Aterareanhui was executed, along with the rest of the khav'vichkah. Nurak was arrested as well, and convicted of high treason. His other eye was put out, and he was left to make his way as a blind and starving beggar, on the street. The mining project went ahead, and the very next year it produced more jevonite that had been found in the entire decade previous. The mine brought much wealth and influence to the village, and much glory to the State.

Now, say the last line along with me: 

"And everything was orderly and in its proper place. The end." 

Well, Garak? What do you think was the moral of that story?

"I think the moral was that Nurak is dumb, and nobody should ever want to be like him."

Fsk. Always content with the surface of things, you are. This is a flaw, Garak. You must always be looking deeper.

The moral of this story is that love is very dangerous indeed, and if you let it control you, you're bound to come to a bad end. When you're older, you will come to understand this; we can't control the way we feel, but we can always control our actions. Nurak's flaw was that he was continually self-indulgent; from the moment he met Aterareanhui, he thought of nothing but his own desires. He completely forgot about his duty to his village, to the State, and eventually he even allowed his emotions to turn him into a traitor. 

Someday you, too, may fall prey to love, but you must never allow it to control your mind or drive your actions. Do you understand?

"Love sounds horrible, naan'e."

Oh, it can be horrible, naogh'i. It can be quite a terrible thing indeed, believe me.

"You look sad. Have you ever been in love?"

...Oh, never you mind that. Just remember, Garak, that as long as you remain vigilant and exercise your self-control, you shall be safe, and keep your mind unclouded by treacherous infatuations. Promise me that you will remember that, always.

"I promise."

Good, good. I only hope that you can keep it, if you ever happen to meet your own khavichka'i. 

"I thought you said that they weren't real."

Oh, never mind. You'd better get back to your chores, naogh'i. You must have all of them finished before Tain comes home. 

Run along now, there you go. 

\-------------

Mila's words ring out in Garak's mind, as clearly as if he'd heard them yesterday. He is distracted, and the needle slips; it turns in his hand, and digs deep into the tip of Garak's finger. He curses, and watches in horror as a drop of blood falls right onto the cloth.

He stares at it for a moment, watching it hover and bead up on the surface of the jacket. It looks dark, almost black, on the surface of the fabric, and for a second Garak expects it to sink in and seal a magic spell inside.

But of course, that's foolish. This damned station must be driving him quite mad. This is real life, not some child's fairytale, and besides, this fabric is designed to repel liquid. It won't let itself be stained.

Garak shakes his head and carefully, with the edge of his sleeve, brushes the blood off. It splats onto the floor and disappears, quickly consumed by the tiny microbes embedded in the wax. 

Magic isn't real, and the khav'vichkah never existed, and Garak needs to stop working and get some rest. Besides, there is no spell in the universe that would make Julian want him, even if that was something that Garak was allowed to think about. 

Which it is most emphatically not.

And the suit is just a particularly nice suit that he is sewing for his friend, and that is all.

It's just a suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Excessively detailed Cardassian language notes**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I know that _lots_ of other people have done work on Cardassian language. I'll admit that I did minimal research for this, and pretty much invented everything wholesale.
> 
> _khav'vichkah_ \- A mythical Cardassian species; kind of like elves. (In the Tolkien sense, not the Keebler sense.) The word is a plural noun used for large/abstract groups such as an entire tribe, or the species in general (e.g. "tales of the khav'vichkah"). It is also an adjective (e.g. "the khav'vichkah language").
> 
> _khavichk_ \- singular, gender unknown or irrelevant  
>  _khavichka'i_ \- singular, male  
>  _khavichka'e_ \- singular, female
> 
> _khavichka'n_ \- plural, where gender is mixed, unknown, or irrelevant. Generally used for groups numbering up to about 15-20.  
>  _khavichka'in_ \- plural, all male  
>  _khavichka'en_ \- plural, all female
> 
> The difference between _khav'vichkah_ and _khavichka'n_ is like the difference between "Spanish" (as a noun) and "Spaniards". E.g., "The Spanish invented tapas", but "I met three Spaniards at the bar".
> 
> _naogh'i_ \- term of affection for a male child; implies a close, possibly familial relationship, but does not specify the exact nature of that relationship.  
>  _naogh'e_ \- as above, but for a female child
> 
> _naan'i_ \- term of affection for a male adult; commonly used as the inverse of the above  
>  _naan'e_ \- as above, but for a female adult
> 
> _chethk'i_ \- term of romantic affection, with sexual implications; when said by a male to another male  
>  _chethk'e_ \- as above, when said by a male to a female  
>  _chethl'i_ \- as above, when said by a female to a male  
>  _chethl'e_ \- as above, when said by a female to another female
> 
> _People_ \- in the context of Mila's story, this is the word that would be translated as "Cardassians" in Federation Standard.
> 
> I <3 exolinguistics. That is all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dicks ahoy.

_The prime factors of 759 are 3, 11, and 23_  
 _The prime factors of 760 are 2, 5, and 19._  
 _761 is by itself prime._  
 _The prime factors of 762 are...._

Damn. It wasn't working; Julian was still hard.

The problem was this thrice-damned suit. The fabric was like the finest, smoothest silk, draped over his skin. Caressing him like soft hands, warming to the slightest touch. Like silk, but at the same time somehow also like velvet: piled with a slight, fibrous roughness that brushed against the skin, sending delicious stimulations to every nerve. 

It just felt so _good_ — the way it clung to him, shifting with every movement. The way it caressed every inch of Julian's body, cupping his most intimate parts in wonderful warm softness.

It felt _too_ good. That was the problem. 

Julian shifted uncomfortably, and hoped that the buffet table in front of him was adequately concealing the rather noticeable bulge between his legs. He rather suspected that it was not.

Dammit, this _really_ wasn't a good time. The reception party for the Solarian, Barianen, and Trimonean diplomatic delegations was quite a big deal, with all of the station officers in attendence, along with the ambassadors from all three planets and representatives from both the Bajoran Provisional Government and the Vedek Assembly. The ambassadors had arrived this afternoon, and were settling in to conduct major trade negotiations with Bajor.

It was an important opportunity for the planet to gain some badly-needed export income, and Captain Sisko had quite solemnly warned all of them to be on their best behavior. (Or, to "observe every single diplomatic protocol down to the letter", as he had put it.) 

And now here Julian was, running around looking like he was trying to hide a phaser down his pants.

"Julian! There you are!"

Shit. It was Dax, and he knew right away that he had absolutely no chance of hiding his current state from her. There was no way that Dax would miss such an obvious and... _protruding_ little detail.

"Julian, this is Ambassador Triskelis, from the Solarian delegation. She was just telling me the most interesting thing about the way that Solais V organizes its medical training colleges..." Jadzia's broad smile faltered slightly, and Julian knew that she had just realized what was up — so to speak — with him. 

He'd give her this, though: Jadzia was a pro. She gave a little cough, but then recovered smoothly. "You know what, these dress boots are totally pinching my feet. Julian, Ambassador Triskelis, would you like to sit down at the table over there, and the Ambassador can tell us more about how the Solarians run their residency programs?" Julian gave Jadzia a grateful look. The table in question was covered with a long, overhanging tablecloth, which would serve nicely to hide Julian's little problem.

Well, he shouldn't say _little_. As a matter of fact, he had got quite a large "problem" at the moment. Looking down, he could see it, pressing upward, the shape of it clearly outlined through his trousers. The shaft, the flared ridge, the curved slope of the head.

He might as well be walking around naked, like in those nightmares that everybody has.

Of course, Julian was no stranger to the unfortunately-timed erection; he _had_ been a fourteen-year-old male, after all. But typically his self-control was quite good, and running through a few multiplication tables — or, if all else fails, prime factorizations — served well enough to calm any unwanted excitement. 

This sort of persistence was quite unusual. 

It had to be the suit.

*******

"Oh, I don't know. Normal fabric, I guess. Whatever you'd usually use. You're always making fun of my clothing, anyways; I figured you'd jump at the chance to pick something out for me."

"Why, Doctor! I'm thoroughly honored that you would put your appearance in my hands. I assure you, you will not be disappointed." Garak made one of those weird half-bows that he sometimes did, when he was being sarcastically enthusiastic.

At least, Julian _thought_ that it was sarcasm. He still wasn't completely sure. 

"Hmm." Garak tapped a finger against one of his neck ridges. "Let's see. I've got some very nice Tragorian brocade in at the moment, in quite a lovely deep blue color... But no, that's already promised to Kan Tameria for a dress, and there won't be enough left over. Or there's that black wool herringbone from Centauri... But, no again. That's really more suited to an older person; a handsome young man such as yourself needs something with a little bit of color. Let's see, let's see... Ah! I know. I've got just the thing. Wait here for just one second, Doctor. I'll be right back." And Garak scurried away into the back of his little tailor shop, while Julian stood there feeling pleased that Garak had called him handsome.

Garak quickly returned, cradling a bolt of fabric in his arm. He turned it over on the counter, and pulled a length free for Julian's examination. "This," he said, "is something very special indeed. It's Rigellian silk, one of the rarest and most expensive fabrics in the entire quadrant. It's made from the famous wild silkworms of Rigel IX, who only hatch once every seventeen years, produce only a single deka of silk each, and have never been successfully domesticated. This bolt, right here, is the product of nearly an entire continent of wild silkworms, painstakingly harvested one nest at a time by the inhabitants of Rigel X."

"Wow," Julian said.

"It's incredibly stong, guaranteed to never rip, stain, or fray, completely impermeable to every sort of liquid, and its color and texture are quite unparalleled. Look, Doctor." Garak slid his hand under the sheet of fabric and lifted it up off the table, tilting it back and forth. "When you look at the fabric straight on, it's a lovely charcoal grey. Very dignified, very fitting for a formal suit. But when you view it at an angle, the fabric displays shades of silver, deep purple, navy blue, and forest green."

"Oh! That is really beautiful," Julian said. "I love those colors."

"Believe me, Doctor, everybody on the station is aware of that fact," Garak said. 

Julian just rolled his eyes. He was quite used to Garak teasing him about his clothing, at this point. 

"Well, I think it's lovely," he said, "and I think that it would make a lovely suit. There's just one problem."

"Oh? What's that?"

"You said that it's one of the most expensive fabrics in the entire quadrant, and you know perfectly well that I don't have a lot of latinum. Hell, the only reason I've got any at all is that Captain Sisko finally persuaded Starfleet to give us a cost-of-living stipend so that we can 'support the Bajoran economy'." Julian made sarcastic air quotes around the phrase. Since moving to Deep Space Nine, he'd really come to understand the value of money, in a way that few Federation citizens could. "So, as nice as it is, I highly doubt that I can afford this."

Garak waved a hand dismissively. "Please, Doctor. You Federation types might have a code of ethics that prohibits showing _personal_ favoritism, but I am burdened with no such thing." Now it was Garak's turn to insert sarcasm into his words. "The truth is, I've been waiting for the right opportunity to use this fabric ever since I got it, and now, that opportunity is here. So, my dear," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, and grasped Julian's elbow, "I will make you a fine suit of this Rigelian silk, perfectly fitted, in a stylish, contemporary cut, for the cost of labor alone. That's less than what you would pay for an ordinary, cheap suit." He grinned a sharklike grin. "Consider it a gift."

"Oh, well," Julian said, trying to ignore the blunt pressure of Garak's five fingers against his arm. "In that case, I accept. Thank you, Garak." 

Garak's hand was always slightly cooler than Julian expected.

_It's probably a trap,_ he reminded himself. _Sooner or later, he'll want a favor in return._

Still, the fabric really was incredibly lovely, and Julian hadn't had a brand new civilian suit in years. There was no harm in it, really. And if Garak asked him for a favor that he didn't want to do, he could always decline. Right?

"Okay," he said. "Do you need to take my measurements, or anything like that?"

"Oh, no, Doctor," Garak said. He maintained his grasp on Julian's elbow, and with his other hand clasped Julian's shoulder for a moment. It felt like a strangely intimate gesture, almost an embrace. "I'm already well aware of your proportions."

_He's just messing with you,_ Julian reminded himself. _He's trying to knock you off-balance, that's all. It's our game; it doesn't mean anything, not really._

"Great," he said, and was proud of the fact that his voice remained calm. "I'll need it in time for the ambassadors' reception; that's in eight days."

"That seems quite reasonable," Garak said. "Store this in your computer-brain, please: Next time we have lunch, we should schedule a fitting."

Julian rolled his eyes, paid Garak a few strips of latinum, and that was that. Julian was getting his new suit.

*******

"It was lovely to meet you, Ambassador Triskelis." 

Julian silently winced when the Ambassador stepped around the table to shake his hand. He'd hoped she might have forgotten about that particular human tradition. 

He awkwardly half-rose and smiled at her, trying to keep his crotch below the level of the table. Unfortunately, standing caused the fabric to slide against his upper thighs, and over his buttocks, and around his cock, and _how did it actually feel like a hand?_

How did it actually feel like goddamned hands cupping his balls, and stroking his cock, and grasping his buttocks, and caressing his lower belly and his thighs? It was insane. _He_ must be going insane. Even when he was fourteen, Julian never got into a state like this.

He was pretty sure that there was no blood left in his brain, at this point. In fact, he suspected his intelligence might have fallen below the level of a standard human being. 

Finally, thank the Prophets, the Solarian Ambassador turned away and was gone. Jadzia, who had stood up to shake hands like a normal, polite adult, slumped back down and shot Julian a pentrating stare. He squirmed in his chair, which only made matters even worse. 

"Either there's a phaser in your pocket, or you're _very_ happy to see me," she joked. "There's something very strange going on with you tonight, Julian. What is it? Did you take some kind of pill? Do you have a thing for Solarians that I never knew about? Tell me." It wasn't a question, it was a command. And Julian, by now, knew better than to lie to Jadzia when she used that tone.

"I feel like an arsehole," he admitted. "It's not on purpose, I swear, and it's not any... any person here. Or anything like that. It's just this suit, I swear to God. That's all. It's just... the fabric feels really, really nice."

"It must," Jadzia said. "It _is_ a very nice looking suit, very stylish. It's sort of... shimmery, yet subtle. Did Garak make it for you?" She reached out and brushed her hand against the cloth, and Julian had to bite back a moan. Somehow, it transmitted the brush of her fingers directly to his skin, the pressure amplified by the smoothness and the softness of silk. 

Jadzia's eyes widened. "Is this... It is! Julian, this is Rigellian silk!" 

He nodded.

"Oh my god, I've never even _seen_ Rigellian silk before. How did Garak get it? And however did _you_ manage to afford some?" she exclaimed.

Julian shrugged and for some reason felt embarassed, like he'd been caught doing something slightly wrong. "I don't know how he got it, but you know Garak. I'm sure he has 'contacts' who owe him 'favors', things like that. And he gave it to me, as a gift. He only charged me for the labor. He said that he didn't want to waste it on someone who wouldn't properly appreciate it, so he'd been waiting for the right opportunity to use it."

"Oh, I'll bet he was," Jadzia said, smirking. Julian shifted again, and bit back another moan. 

This was terrible. It was _torment_. Every nerve felt alive, and every time he moved, the fabric stroked and teased him. It kept him constantly aroused, but denied him any sort of satisfaction.

Of course, he could take matters into his own hands, and he fully intended to do so as soon as he was back in his own quarters. But he'd been hard for so long, and there was still a good hour before the reception was over, and if he left early, Captain Sisko was sure to notice.

Though at this point, he was just about willing to risk it. Maybe it was better to get yelled at tomorrow than to cause an interstellar diplomatic incident tonight.

Jadzia shot him an unreadable look. "Have you tried focusing on something else?"

"Yes! I did prime factors; that normally does the trick. I gave up when I reached 800, though."

"I see." She frowned. "Well, we can't have you toting that thing around in front of all of the ministers. Sooner or later, someone more prudish than me is bound to notice." She pushed back her chair, and rose. "I'll go and tell Captain Sisko that you started feeling ill and had to leave. If he asks tomorrow, tell him that the Barianen jumping beetle casserole disagreed with you." She made a face. "I find the stuff rather disgusting, myself, and I _adore_ most kinds of live insect dishes."

Julian shuddered. "Will do." He rose, and turned to scout out the pathway to the exit. "Thanks so much, Jadzia. You're the best."

"Here, I'll escort you to the door. Let me stand on that side..."

As they walked to the exit, Julian stepping rather awkwardly, Jadzia leaned in with a mischievous grin, and said, "I really think that you should complain to Garak."

"Oh? But I mean, he can't have known that _this_ would happen. And it seems rather tacky to complain about a gift..."

"No, trust me," Jadzia said. "They must be too tight or something. You should go and tell him about it right now, so that he can alter them before they get all — you know." She waved her hands vaguely. "Stretched out. After all, it would be a real shame to ruin such lovely, expensive fabric."

"Oh, but surely it can wait?" Julian said. His brain felt hazy; he thought that he was starting to see spots. His blood pressure must be off; unsurprising, since half of his blood was currently residing in his dick.

"No," said Jadzia, "I really think it can't. Trust me, Garak will want to know about this right away. You know how much pride he takes in his work." She smirked, and Julian couldn't figure out why.

"You're smirking," he said. "Why?"

"I'm smirking because you've had a boner for the past two hours, and it still won't go away," she said. "I'm pretty sure that when that happens, you're supposed to consult a doctor. Unfortunately..."

She gestured toward Julian, and continued smirking.

It took Julian a minute to recognize the archaic slang term that she used. _Trust Jadzia to know every single word in Standard relating to the penis,_ he thought.

"Promise me you'll go tell Garak," she said.

"Alright, fine," Julian said. "I promise." 

Finally, they were at the door. With a sigh of relief that turned halfway into a moan, Julian quickly fled from the reception.

*******

A few minutes later he was standing outside of Garak's quarters, still trying to figure out if his presence here even made sense. It _seemed_ right, though, and he _still_ had a boner, so clearly there was something wrong... 

Whatever. Julian was tired of thinking. Garak would make it all okay.

He beeped the door chime, and impatiently shifted from foot to foot. Only then did it occur to him that he might want to consider exactly what he was going to say to his friend, to explain why he was showing up at his quarters after hours, with what looked like a Tenarian sausage stuffed down his pants. 

Oh blast, it was too late. The door to Garak's quarters was already sliding open, and a familiar grey face was poking curiously out. 

When he saw Julian, Garak had a very strange reaction; for just a fraction of a second, his eyes widened, and something flashed in them that almost looked like fear. Julian opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but already it was gone, and Garak's face had resumed its familiar, affable mask.

"Doctor Bashir!" he said. "What brings you here? Wasn't that reception for the trade envoys scheduled this evening?"

"I have a problem," Julian blurted out, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. "These pants are too tight."

Oh, what was he doing here? This whole thing really wasn't very well thought out. Julian wanted to spin on his heel and run away, but at this point that would only make matters worse with Garak. No, there was nothing to do now but stay and brave it out.

Damn Jadzia, anyway.

Garak looked down, and Julian could tell the exact moment that he noticed Julian's crotch, because Garak's face went all dark around the ridges. That was a sign of increased blood flow, Julian knew, but it could mean anger, amusement, arousal; basically any strong emotion.

It really didn't help.

"I... see," Garak said, and his voice sounded a little bit strangled. "I think you'd better come inside."

"Oh, you know what? It can wait," Julian blustered. "I really shouldn't have disturbed you; I honestly don't know why I came."

"No, really," Garak said. "I insist. Please, come in." Julian acquiesced, and followed Garak into his quarters, feeling sheepish. 

He'd only been in Garak's rooms a couple of times before, but they looked exactly the same now as they always did. There was some kind of strange, slightly atonal music playing, and a PADD lay discarded on the end table. Apparently Garak had been doing some reading before Julian knocked.

Garak bustled over to one of the side shelves, bent, and pulled out a slim black case that Julian recognized as his portable sewing kit. The Cardassian tended to keep it with him wherever he went, and once he'd told Julian with a perfectly straight face that he knew ten different ways to kill a man with just its contents.

Julian easily believed him.

Garak pulled out a slim, flexible roll of plastic ribbon that was marked off into dekas and kyudekas, in the Cardassian system of distance measurement. Winding one end of it casually around his hand, he gave Julian's trousers a slow, thorough inspection. "So," he said, "you said that the pants were too tight? I'm surprised, Doctor; they seemed fine during the fitting. But yes, now that you mention it, I think that I can see the problem."

He paced toward Julian, one slow, confident footstep at a time, and Julian had to suppress a sudden urge to step backward. Despite the complete lack of threat in Garak's posture, he couldn't help but feel like a small, furry mouse, being hypnotized by the graceful sway of a king cobra.

He also thought his cock might be about to burst right through his pants, un-rippable fabric or not.

When Garak was only a single stride away, he sunk gracefully onto his knees in front of Julian, which immediately sent Julian's mind to the dirtiest possible places. Julian shook his head, trying to clear away the sudden rush of images of Garak leaning forward, opening his mouth wide, and devouring Julian whole. 

In a manner of speaking. 

"Now, where exactly are they cut too small? Is it here?" Garak laid one hand on the inside of Julian's right calf, just below the knee. It was a completely innocent gesture, really, but Julian still had to bite back a gasp. The sudden pressure of Garak's hand, its weight and its slight coolness, the way the tiny interlocking scales on his hand caused the fabric to drag against Julian's skin — it sent a rush through Julian's body, and made him feel quite dizzy.

"But no," Garak said, saving Julian from having to make any reply. "They seem to fit quite well around the lower leg and calves. The problem must be higher." And he slid his hand up the inside of Julian's leg, from below the knee to halfway up his inner thigh, far too slowly and intentionally it to be entirely innocent. "Here?"

Julian was too far gone to be suspicious. "Higher," he gasped, hardly knowing what he was saying. He only knew that Garak seemed to be willing to play along with this — whatever this was — and his touch felt far too good for Julian to make him stop.

Garak slid his hand up even higher, until it was resting in the crease of Julian's inner thigh, just inches away from his aching, pent-up cock. "Here?" he asked slyly, and Julian couldn't contain himself any longer. A moan tore from his mouth, and his cock visibly jerked inside his trousers. His hips, seemingly of their own volition, twisted sideways until the back of Garak's hand was pressed firmly against his bulge.

Well, that was that. Any flimsy pretense about what this was had just been torn away. Julian watched Garak, trying to see how he would react. He didn't really know exactly what he wanted, except that he absolutely, 100% did _not_ want Garak to take his hand away.

Garak's eyes widened; his hand pressed harder against Julian's leg. Slowly, as if in a trance, he turned it toward the inside, and curled his fingers around the length of Julian's cock.

It felt... Oh god, there were no words. It felt like what Julian had been waiting for all night, ever since he put on this suit. With that movement, it was like some barrier had been broken, and in a flash Garak wrapped his other hand around Julian's legs and cupped one buttock, squeezing it hard and making Julian's hips jerk. With his other hand, he stroked Julian's cock through the fabric of the suit, sliding his hand up and down its entire length.

Given the state that Julian had been in all night, it took only a few seconds, and maybe three pumps of Garak's fist, for to feel his orgasm approaching. His sense of time became strangely dilated, so that Julian could feel every tiny change in his body as it prepared to finally, finally come. His toes curled, his calves tensed, his hips thrust forward, his buttocks and his stomach muscles clenched; and then finally, finally the wave crested and broke, and Julian let out a helpless, incoherent shout.

It was probably the best orgasm that he'd ever had, despite the fact that Garak never directly touched his skin.

Julian lost track of what was happening for awhile after that, rolling in a haze of fuzzy vision and endorphins. When he came back to his senses, he was slumped forward, practically on his knees himself, and Garak was, for lack of a better word, _holding_ him.

He turned his head, and pressed his cheek into the side of Garak's neck. It was cool, and the scales were slightly rough, and it was nothing like cuddling up with a human being, and it was _wonderful_. It felt completely right.

"Ah, there we are," Garak said. His voice sounded a little bit rough, a little bit deeper and more gravelly than normal, but his tone was typically innocuous and light. "Do you know what, Doctor? I do believe that the problem has been fixed."

Julian turned his head and brushed his lips against Garak's neck, and brought his hand up to caress Garak's cheek. "And what about you, Elim?" he murmured huskily. "What can I do for you this evening?" He ran his other hand slowly, teasingly down his friend's left arm, and felt Garak's shoulders stiffen. 

"Come," he said, and then he was so lightheaded and endorphin-high that he started to giggle. Because, yes, exactly; that was the entire point. 

Composing himself, he tried again. "Come on, Elim," he whispered into his friend's ear, "you've given me quite a gift tonight. Let me return the favor. I'll do anything you want..."

The next thing Julian knew, he was sprawling out on his back on the floor, knocked off-balance, as Garak scrambled to his feet and retreated several steps. The tailor's pale blue eyes were wide and wild, and there once again was that flash of the thing that looked like fear. 

Julian opened his mouth to ask, to try to understand, but Garak cut him off. "Get out."

The brusque command felt like a bucket of cold water, followed up by a punch to the gut. "Wha—" Julian could barely think to formulate a question, he was so shocked by the sudden change in Garak's demeanor.

He didn't readily admit this to most people, but Julian absolutely was the cuddling type. He _needed_ phyiscal contact and affection after an orgasm; even with his most casual lovers, he almost always stayed the night.

This rejection, this sudden loss, was almost physically painful.

"I'm sorry," Garak said. "I phrased that poorly. I meant no offense." Now he was back to being "plain, simple Garak" again — that persona that Julian knew full well was a lie. "What I meant to say was, your problem has been resolved, and you can go now. Please, feel no obligation to stay on my behalf."

Julian stumbled to his feet, acutely feeling the rejection. He was so unguarded, in this vulnerable moment, that tears sprang to his eyes. "But Garak," he protested, "I _want_ to—"

Garak turned his back on Julian, and strode over to the door. "Julian," he said, leaning against the wall so that Julian couldn't see his face. For a second, his voice sounded real and raw. Possibly even honest. "What just happened was purely circumstantial. I understand that, even if you don't."

"But I don't—"

Garak slapped the panel that caused the door to open, and then turned and half-bowed, gesturing to the corridor. "Enjoy your evening, Doctor," he said. "It was lovely to see you. Do have a good night." It was as clear a dismissal as Julian had ever received. 

There was nothing for it then but to stumble out the door. Julian found himself once more alone in the empty corridor, with a mess inside his trousers, feeling all buzzed and stretched-thin and undertouched. 

He looked backward. Garak's door was firmly shut.

After that, there was only the long walk home with aching skin, a head full of questions, and a lonely empty bed. 

*******

Garak slumps back against the door, eyes closed. His shoulders and his hands are shaking. 

He'd been selfish. He never should have let Julian in, but he'd thought that he could play and still remain objective. That he could go so far, and then no further. 

Cardassians don't cry — at least, not in the way that Humans do, with saltwater coming from ducts around their eyes. Instead, their neck-glands emit an oily substance. 

Right now, Garak's shoulders are wet. 

_Why am I mourning?_ he asks himself. _I should be proud! I did the right thing; I saved both of us from my trap._

_He'll thank me later, once he's back in his right mind._

_I did the right thing! Mila would be proud._

Mila would be proud. 

So why does Garak feel so awful? 


	3. Chapter 3

"Quark! Another — what did you say this was called, again?" That last question was directed to Jadzia.

"A Stygian Iced Tea. But Julian, don't you think—"

"Another Stygian Iced Tea!"

Quark grinned toothily. "Coming right up." He leaned in close to Julian, and said in a low-pitched, confidential tone, "So, Doctor, what's the special occasion?"

Normally, Julian would say something vague, or tell the nosy bartender that it was none of his business. But tonight, the alcohol had already gone quite a way toward loosening his tongue. 

"I've got a broken heart," he said. Possibly some of the vowels slurred a little.

"Oh." Quark looked disappointed. "That's all." He patted Julian's shoulder patronizingly. "Don't worry. You'll be over her tomorrow, just like every other time." Probably Quark had hoped to hear something that he could turn into a profit, but the only latinum he was going to be making from Julian tonight was on his bar tab.

Quark turned away to mix another Stygian Iced Tea, and Julian slumped down onto the counter, burying his head in his arms. "Jadziiiiiia," he whined. "Does everyone on this station think that I'm nothing but a shameless man-slut? I have feelings! Tender, breakable feelings! It sucks!"

Jadzia snorted, and took a sip of her bloodwine to cover it up. "Well, first of all, there's nothing wrong with being shameless. In fact, I'd say that it's the best way to be. But Julian, you do tend to have a lot of one-night stands. Not that there's anything wrong with that, at all! It's just that... most of the time, you seem to move through your emotions very quickly. Whether it's lust or infatuation or sadness, it seems like you always change from one day to the next. So that might have given you a certain reputation for... flightiness, shall we say? Among the people who know you."

Julian nodded. "I guess so, yeah. It's true. And the thing is, I've always been okay with that. I've never felt like I wanted anything longer-term. Not yet."

"Julian," she hesitated. "As your friend, I have to ask this. You said that Garak said that your desire was 'circumstantial', and that's why he made you leave. But... I mean, wasn't it?" 

Julian cracked open one eye to look gratefully at the fresh drink that Quark set down beside him.

"You were horny, and he was available, and things happened," Jadzia said. "Isn't that right?"

Julian sat straight up and opened his mouth to argue. It hung open for a minute, and then he closed it again and slumped forward, resting his cheek on his hand. Finally, he said, "Yes and no."

"Tell me."

"It's true that under normal circumstances, I never would have dreamed of pursuing Garak." He sighed. "But that doesn't mean I didn't want to." 

"Ah," Jadzia said. She sounded relieved. "Alright, then."

Julian sighed again. "I mean, you can see for yourself how many ways it makes no sense. Setting aside the fact that I mostly don't date men, Garak is Cardassian, which is one of the more... _different_ humanoid species, both mentally and anatomically. And on top of that, he's probably a spy, and definitely a former member of the Obsidian order. He's really the very last person I, as a Starfleet officer, should be thinking about getting involved with, especially given the precarious nature of my own position within Starfleet. So I always tried really hard not to."

"But you were attracted to him anyway."

Julian nodded. "Sure. It started out as a mental attraction, really. The thing is — I can't say this to many people, but I think you'll understand — one of the reasons why I mainly have one night stands is that most people are just so _boring_. They're so... limited in intellect." He frowned. "I wish I didn't feel that way, but I do. _You_ know what I mean."

"Not really," Jadzia said. "I find almost everyone fascinating, myself."

"So do I!" Julian protested. "For about one day. Then, for most people, that's it. I feel... done with them. But Garak..." He shook his head. "Maybe it's because he's so different. I don't know. But, I mean, his memory for detail is insane, and the way he plots and strategizes and thinks, always in layers upon layers piled upon layers — it fascinates me. It _continues_ to fascinate me, no matter how much time I spend with him."

"I guess over time, that fascination became... physical as well as mental. More... embodied."

"You mean you started wanting to fuck him," Jadzia said.

"Er... Well, I'd rather it the other way around, actually," Julian said. "Though I'm open to that possibility, too."

Jadzia smirked, and Julian felt a warm glow spread through himself at the lack of judgment on Jadzia's face. (Or was that just from the booze?) "I can tell that you've given this matter some thought," she remarked dryly. 

"Oh, yes," Julian said. " _Extensive_ thought." He blushed.

"So," he concluded, "it was more like the circumstances gave me an excuse to set aside my good judgment and common sense, and do something that I'd wanted to do, deep down inside, for quite awhile."

"Good," Jadzia said. "That's actually what I thought, but I just had to doublecheck. But you can see, can't you, how Garak might perceive it another way? How he might think it was just another one of your well-known fleeting fancies?"

Julian nodded, miserably. "Yeah. I guess I do."

"And he doesn't seem like the type to allow himself to get caught up in something like that."

Julian shook his head. "That doesn't explain why he looked afraid, though."

"What do you mean?"

"When I first showed up at the door, and again when I offered to, ah, return the favor. He looked afraid, for just a second. Like he was afraid of _me_... or something. Which makes absolutely zero sense."

"Interesting," Jadzia said. "That's very, very interesting."

"What do you think it means?"

Jadzia didn't answer for a moment, staring down at her bloodwine and swirling her mug around, as if she could see something hidden in its depths. Finally, she said, "I can't answer that. I don't know Garak well enough. But if you want to know my advice, here it is."

"From what I know of Cardassians, they tend to place great meaning in symbolism. They believe strongly in the idea of what we would call archetypes, or certain patterns that repeat over and over again. You can see this all over their literature. You've read some of it; you know what I mean." Julian nodded.

"I think it's likely that Garak is acting based on some sort of symbolism that he sees, or some archetype to which he relates this situation. I have no idea what archetype that could be, since many of these folk tales haven't even been recorded. For a highly advanced species, their oral tradition is still quite strong. It could be something that his grandmother told him as a child; there's no way for us to know."

"But if that's what's happening, if that's what he is doing, then your only hope of changing the ending is to change the tale itself. Refuse to play your part; write a new chapter. Change the plot." 

"How in the seven fresh hells do I do that?" Julian said. "I have no idea what Garak is thinking, right now. Every time I think I've learned something about Cardassian psychology, he proves me wrong again."

Jadzia shook her head. "I don't know, but you know him better than anyone else. Just remember, try to think in terms of symbolism." She paused. "I will say this. A story, once set in motion, tends to keep rolling along under its own logic, and the longer it goes, the harder it is to change. So I think you have a brief window of opportunity to slip past Garak's defenses. Whatever you do, whatever gesture you make, you need to do it soon, and you need to make it count."

Julian groaned, and took a long swig of his drink. "No pressure," he said.

Jadzia rested her hand on Julian's shoulder, and lightly squeezed. "There's one more thing," she said. "Before taking any action, I would first think very carefully about what it is that you actually want with Garak. Don't take this situation lightly, Julian. Because I have a strong feeling that he won't."

He nodded and laid his hand over hers — or tried to, anyway. A fresh wave of drunkenness was quickly descending upon him, probably from that third cup of Stygian Iced Tea that had somehow gone empty during the course of their conversation. "You're the best, J'diza," he mumbled. "I like your spots. I always wanna poke them." He prodded the side of Jadzia's neck with his index finger. "Poke. Poke."

Jadzia laughed, and maneuvered him so that his arm was around her shoulders. "Come on, Julian," she said. "Let's get you to your quarters." She turned away from the bar, pulling Julian along with her.

"But the night's still young!" Julian protested. "I just got off-shift, like, 10 minutes ago. C'mon, Jadz, let's have another drink..." He trailed off, trying to avoid the bar stools that seemed to be inexplicably strewn across his path.

"It's been a lot longer than 10 minutes, Julian," Jadzia said. "And besides, I have plans later. The Nesmiths are in port for the day." The Nesmiths were planetary geologists, a married couple, who were running a long-term survey in the Gamma Quadrant. Julian was pretty sure that Jadzia was having some kind of unorthodox three-way affair with them both.

Well, unorthodox was practically Dax's middle name, and more power to her for it. Julian, on the other hand, wasn't used to treading so far outside the lines of social acceptability. Seeing another man was no big deal, but a Cardassian? A _spy_?

It would be easy to just let it go. Easy, and probably the smart thing, too. It would be for the best, really.

But he couldn't, he just _couldn't_. Everything in him protested the idea.

As he bobbed and weaved down the corridor, Julian's only thought was, _What the hell am I going to do?_

\-------

He opened his eyes some time later, in his own quarters. Automatically, he said, "Computer, time."

"Station time is 0030 hours." 

Julian winced as the reply sent a sharp pain through his skull. He raised a hand to his forehead, feeling the room spin around him, and groaned. What was _in_ those Stygian Iced Teas?

He sat up gingerly, and took a deep breath, waiting for a burst of nausea to recede. This was quite bad; he hadn't been this hungover since the day after he graduated from Starfleet Medical. He stuck his hand out blindly, fumbling for the glass of water that he always kept on his bedside table. There was no glass there, but he felt the oblong shape of a hypospray instead.

_Bless you, Jadzia,_ Julian thought, as he pressed the injector against the side of his neck. He sighed in relief as the hangover cure coursed through his system, quickly suppressing his nausea, rehydrating him, and restoring his elecrolyte balance. 

Only then, after his head stopped spinning, did it occur to Julian that he should have checked the hypospray's contents first, before blindly injecting them into his system. _Garak would be disappointed in me,_ he thought.

He froze. _Garak. Right._

It was coming back to him now, his and Jadzia's conversation. One of the last things that he remembered was something that she had reiterated at the door to his quarters: "You have to change the story. Create the circumstance _you_ want."

But how?

He rose from the bed, bringing the lights up to a low level, and went over to the small closet concealed inside the wall. Pulling it open, he looked over a row of uniforms, black-and-blue, all alike; his few other items of casual clothing, most of them in bright colors and garish patterns; and then the suit.

It all came back to that suit, didn't it? Garak had made it for him, designed it and chosen the fabric, and given it to him as a gift. And that gift had created a circumstance that led Julian to Garak's quarters, and then to his... well, not his bed, but to the floor of his living room at any rate.

Symbolism. If he tried to think about it like a Cardassian — well, it make Julian's head hurt all over again, but he could sort of see it. It all hinged around the gift, didn't it?

But surely Garak didn't think that Julian wanted to sleep with him just out of a sense of obligation, or gratitude. Surely he knew Julian better than that.

Julian shook his head. Symbolism, he reminded himself. Archetypal stories didn't necessarily work on the level of logic. They went deeper than that, buried in the subconscious; and from what he understood, a Cardassian's subconscious went very deep indeed.

It all hinged around the gift. The suit. That seemed to be the thing that had started it all.

How to change the story?

...He could turn it around. Balance the scales; give Garak a gift in return. Something to convey Julian's intentions. A symbolic response. 

Yes! That could be it. And even if it wasn't, Julian would feel better doing something rather than nothing. 

But what could he do? He was no tailor; he couldn't sew Garak a suit. He needed to make Garak a gift equal to the one that Garak had given him, but Julian was no artist. 

Being a doctor didn't seem too useful in this particular situation. His surgical training had given him the ability to cut and sew a reliably straight seam, but that was about it. And Garak was constantly informing him that he had no sense of design.

Slowly, Julian reached out and pulled the suit off of the rack, feeling the fabric of it slip and slide over his fingers. It was amazing fabric, really. So beautiful, so fine. Fabric like that could seduce anybody... 

An idea struck him.

Garak was always cold, wasn't he? He certainly complained about it often enough. And with Julian's surgical experience, he _could_ sew a straight seam. Maybe that was all he needed.

At any rate, it would have to do.

Julian went out into the front room, opened his medical bag, and pulled out his exoscalpel. Then he flicked on the overhead light above his table and laid the suit out flat onto the surface. He sat down, and examined one leg to find the seam.

There was no seam to be found. Damn. Garak must have used molecular bonding to assemble and shape the fabric, which would make this task a bit more difficult. 

Julian's estimation of Garak's tailoring abilities rose another point. Molecular bonding was an incredibly finicky and difficult method of shaping fabric, and Julian hadn't known that Garak possessed the skills to do it. Nor that he had the necessary tools hidden away, somewhere in his little shop. 

_Always full of surprises, our Garak. Well, that's why I love him._

The thought made Julian sit up, and flip off the exoscalpel. _Do I? Do I love Garak?_

_Bloody hell... I think I do._

Julian tried to bring to mind all of the reasons that he shouldn't: Garak's species, his profession, his personality, even his gender. But they didn't make him feel any different.

He still loved him.

_Well, there's that question answered, then._

Newly resolved, Julian reignited the exoscalpel, bent over the table, and began to cut a line down one leg of the pants. His hand was steady, well-practiced at the task, and the line came out as straight as if it had been cut by a computer. 

\-------

It's Wednesday, the day that Garak usually eats with Julian. Here he is, standing in the Replimat trying hard to pretend that his heart isn't thudding in his boots. Trying to act like the thing that he'd most feared isn't coming true. 

Julian isn't there. Isn't at their table, waiting; isn't standing in the line. Isn't anywhere at all.

He didn't come. He didn't come.

Garak spins around and strides back to his shop in a foul mood, grinning so hard that he shows teeth. He is convinced down to his soul that his only real friendship had been ruined. Julian — his Julian — will never speak to him again. He walks through the door, and stops.

On the front counter, where Garak is sure to see it, there's a pile of very familiar fabric, folded over and stacked neatly, lying in wait. Julian must have dropped it off while he was out.

Garak feels like crying, or yelling, or smashing the shop to bits. Julian is even returning his gift, now? That's a new low.

Perched atop the pile of fabric, there's a PADD. With shaking hands, Garak picks it up and flicks the screen on. Immediately, a short message comes up. It says only, "You gave me a gift; now I want to give you one. I made this for you."

Garak's first thought is: _That's not at all what I was expecting._ His despair quickly vanishes, replaced by intrigue.

_Gifts and subterfuge. What is this new game that my Julian is playing?_

Turning back to the pile of fabric, he realizes that something is not quite right. He picks it up and watches it unfold, and only then does he realize that it's no longer a suit. There's no jacket, no undershirt, no waistcoast or trousers; it unfolds in one piece, in the shape of a large rectangle criss-crossed by hand-stitched, irregular seams.

It's a blanket. Julian made Garak a blanket, out of his new suit. 

Why on Cardassia would Julian do that? 

It must have taken quite some effort. He would have had to cut the fabric into the right shapes, so that it would join to form a nice, rectangular piece — which, even with the aid of a computer, was no trivial task. Then he would have had to stitch all of these parts up by hand. 

It wasn't quite professional-grade work; Garak could plainly see the seams.  But they ran straight, and the stitches were very small and even, obviously made by someone with a lot of practice. And the fabric was just as soft and beautiful and luxurious as ever. All-in-all, it was quite a lovely blanket.

All of that care and planning and effort, not for some pink-and-yellow Human girl, but for _Garak_. What could possibly have prompted the Doctor to perform that task? Garak thought that he understood Julian through and through, but obviously the young man possesses hidden depths.

He feels more than happy to be proven wrong.

\-------

Different species carry stress in different ways upon their bodies, Garak has noticed. For example, Humans — or at least, Garak's Human sample size of one — tend to keep it in their shoulders and their neck. Many's the time that Garak has watched Julian's shoulder muscles tense and felt an itch in his fingertips, wanting to dig into that muscle. To help his friend relax.

(But it wouldn't be welcome. He could feel it in Julian's stiffness, that very first time; he didn't lean into Garak's touch, didn't invite him to dig his fingers into that enticingly delicate pink skin. 

Garak got the message, and has never tried again. Still, every time that Julian is anxious, Garak stares at the stiff set of his shoulders and longs to touch.)

Cardassians, on the other hand, experience stress mainly as cold: a sweeping, bitter, psychosomatic sort of chill that emanates from somewhere in the stomach, and pervades the extremities. Ever since their strange encounter in his quarters, Garak has felt chilled down to his core — even moreso than he usually does on this frigid, mammal-infested station.

He stares at the blanket. It pulls at him like gravity — no, stronger. Like the strong force in the nucleus of an atom. 

He wants it. He wants its softness, wants the thing it symbolizes and the warmth that he imagines is still embedded there. A remnant from a time when it was pressed against Julian's bare skin. 

And Garak fears it, too, more than he has feared any gift that he has ever received, in a lifetime full of strings-attached and secret meanings. What game is his Julian playing?

(Not _his_ Julian, no. He should stop thinking that.

But... maybe?)

He stares at it, sitting cross-legged on his bed. For how long, he does not know.

He is cold. He thinks that he has always been cold, all his life. Even when he was on Cardassia Prime, which was a real planet with a proper climate. 

Even when this was Terok Nor, before the mammals took over. Even then, he was freezing.

He's been cold for his entire life.

(The Cardassians have a word called em'yaspokh'a. In Standard, this means roughly something like "a moment when one realizes and accepts one's fate." Specifically, a fate that has been hinted at many times in the past, but never fully understood until this moment. 

It is a sense of realization — a homecoming, almost. The fulfillment of one's destiny, after many long cycles of waiting. 

Like many Cardassian concepts, there's no one simple translation.)

Garak feels em'yaspokh'a reverberating in his bones, as he reaches out and slowly unfolds the blanket. He pulls it over himself; it is rough against his ridges, and soft against the spaces in-between, and warm everywhere against the chill that has encased him. He covers himself with it, from his neck down to his toes.

It makes him think of Julian, of course.

Garak turns on his side, and falls instantly into sleep.

\------- 

He is in a cave. His hands and feet are bound, but somehow he is not afraid. A tall, golden-skinned creature stands above him, his skin gleaming in the firelight. Nurak — that is his name, Nurak. Somehow he knows this.

He wants desperately to touch it, this glorious creature that is above him.

The creature, the khavichka'i, thrusts his spear toward Nurak, who barely manages to keep himself from flinching. He might have been a fool to come here, into the very heart of the khav'vichkah camp, but he is still a Person, and he still has some pride. But no razor-sharp edge comes stabbing through his chest; instead, it deftly slices open the bonds that hobble the tailor's feet.

Aterareanhui — that is his name, the khavichka'i. Nurak does not remember how he knows this.

Aterareanhui gestures for him to stand. "Come with me," he says, and Nurak stands.

"I will go with you," he says. "Wherever you lead me, I will go." The phrase echoes in the small cavern, sounding full of em'yaspokh'a. "With you," he says again, and awkwardly rises to his feet. "Wherever you will take me."

The khavichka'i looks at him deeply with his round brown eyes, and Nurak can sense a moment when he arrives at some decision. He gestures for Nurak to follow, as he strides out of the cave. 

It is night, now; Nurak must have been unconscious for some time. He can't make out too many details of the khav'vichkah encampment, but he sees silhouettes moving about, and smells meat being roasted over the fires. Somewhere in the darkness, a khavichka'e is singing in a high, clear voice. Her song is so pure and so sad that it brings teomnh to Nurak's shoulders, and makes his heart ache in his chest.

The People aren't too big on music; they have a few traditional folk forms, but their hearing is weak, and overall it is an undeveloped art. This song, however, cuts right to Nurak's bones. It seems to capture the heartbreak and desperate longing that he has lived with for so long, and the pain that has always chilled his bones, despite the desert heat.

It is a feeling that he lived with for so long that he didn't even recognize it as pain, until it was no longer present.

He follows the khavichka'i into another cave. This one is large and bright and warm, shining as golden as Aterareanhui's skin, though Nurak cannot immediately determine the source of all that warmth and light. 

It seems to be emanating from the khavichka'i himself. But that cannot be right.

Aterareanhui indicates that Nurak sit, and then he folds himself up gracefully next to him, crossing his legs and putting his arms around his knees. He reaches around behind himself, and from somewhere pulls out a blanket, offering it to Nurak.

He says only one simple phrase. "Stay here, with me. Warm me, and let me give you warmth."

It is enough to make Nurak feel faint. He reaches out and takes the blanket, wrapping it around him. Instantly he is warm — warmer, and happier and more relaxed, than he has ever been in his life.

"Yes," he says, and he lies down on his side. The blanket covers him, and it feels like home. It feels like love.

"Yes," he says again. "I will stay. For as long as you choose to warm me, I will stay."

"I will warm you," Aterareanhui says, and then the khavichka'i is crouching over Garak — Nurak, his name is Nurak, where did that other one come from — and his golden skin gleams in the firelight, and Nurak reaches out to touch it, and his grey fingertip presses against the yielding softness, and Aterareanhui gives a soft, low moan, and then...

\------

Garak opens his eyes, feeling his heart racing. For a second, he thinks that there is someone in bed with him; that's how it feels. Someone covering him all over, warm and soft as no lover has ever been, and a hand insistently wrapped around his member. His sst'i, which has come fully extruded and thrusts up, hard and pink and ridged, exposed and vulnerable, against the blanket....

The blanket. The magic blanket, that Julian gave him.

He cannot help himself; he moans, and rubs his hips against it. It is caught around him, held and pressed in such a way that it rubs his sensitive sst'i all along its shaft and cradles the tender tip, and Aterareanhui was just bending over him so close, and reaching out to touch him...

Garak levers himself up, and rubs the mucus from his eyes, and stares down at the place where the blanket bulges up, right there between his legs. This has not happened in a very long time. It is not so common for an adult Cardassian male to fully emerge like this, in the absence of a partner's stimulation.

It's just the blanket, he supposes. It's just that it feels so good, and his dream, and his khavichka'i...

His khavichka'i.

Garak feels em'yaspokh'a wash over him. The story was going differently, in his dream. The khavichka'i had acted, and that had made the tale change; he had enticed Nurak to stay, seducing him and giving him gifts, instead of the reverse. 

It is different from the way Garak had learned it.

It's nothing that he could ever explain to a mammal, but in that instant, Garak becomes enlightened. Suddenly he perceives a deeper truth. 

This story is not fixed. The ending is not set in stone; it varies with every cycle, twisting and winding like a thread of Rigellian silk. Garak has been listening to Mila's version, all this time, but the story itself is different in every retelling.

His Julian, his khavichka'i — beautiful and smooth and golden-skinned and wise — has changed it. They are on a different path now, and Garak is the one who has been caught.

No, not caught. Neither of them has been caught. 

What has happened, instead, is that they've been given a choice. 

He stares down at the bulge between his legs, feeling the slick draw of the fabric at every shudder, every breath. It would be so easy, to wrap his fist around that soft protrusion and satisfy it on his own. So easy, and so safe, and the story would be done. No em'yaspokh'a, no fate. And Garak's old familiar lifestyle would continue.

This is the chufa of this moment, as the People say it: the cradle of sharp choice, from which all that comes afterward will descend.

He thinks about warmth and coldness, and his Julian carefully piecing and stitching lengths of cloth for him, for him. For him.

In that thought, the path is made.

He bites down upon his lip, gathering his strength, and then he pushes the soft blanket away. Immediately he shivers, greatly missing its warmth. The cold is good, though, for it makes his sst'i recede to the point where he can put on his clothes.

He stands and makes himself decent, grabbing the first shirt and pants that come to hand, and then he heads out of his quarters, almost at a run.

\------

Julian wasn't quite sure what to expect now. Was it reasonable to hope for some kind of reply from Garak by tomorrow? The next day? Or should he just leave him alone, give him several days before attempting to make contact? 

What if it didn't matter? What if, no matter what Julian did now, he'd already failed?

What if Garak never spoke to him again?

It was impossible to sleep, so instead Julian paced a tight circle around his quarters, over and over again, switching directions whenever he started feeling dizzy. He carried a PADD, so that he could tell himself he was being productive. Catching up on some obscure medical journals. But there was no reading happening; only pacing. Round and round, over and over again.

When his door chime beeped, it made Julian jump, and the PADD slipped from his hand. He cursed, and picked it up. "Computer, time."

0500 hours. Damn. Who could it possibly be? Surely not...

Julian pressed open, and the door whooshed aside to reveal that it was, in fact, Garak. His heart racing, Julian raised a hand in greeting. Garak was carrying the blanket that Julian had made in his arms; he held it out. Julian took it from him, and then Garak stepped inside.

They stared at one another.

Suddenly Julian's back was against the wall, and Garak was leaning against him with the full weight of his powerful body, crushing the air out of his lungs. One of Garak's hands cradled the back of Julian's head, so that no harm came to it; the other curved around one hip, slipping a thumb beneath the waistband of his pyjama pants. Without a word, Garak pressed in and began to kiss him.

Julian readily parted his lips to let Garak's tongue inside, and wrapped his arms around Garak's solid back. They kissed until he began to feel dizzy and short of breath. Even then, he didn't want to stop, but he found it entirely probable that the Cardassian could continue doing this for hours, while Julian might soon pass out.

Gently, he turned his head to the side, and pushed his palm against the center of Garak's chest. It took his friend a moment to get the message; then he hastily, somewhat awkwardly stepped back. Julian took a grateful, deep breath.

They stared at one another.

"Well," Julian said, trying to sound calm. "Hello. I take it you liked my gift?"

Garak just looked at him, blue eyes wide, and then at the blanket, which now lay discarded on the floor. "Doctor," he said finally, in a rather deep voice that sent shivers down Julian's spine, "I think there's something wrong with the blanket that you gave me."

"Oh?" said Julian. "What's that?"

"When I fell asleep under it, I found that I had very strange dreams. Then when I woke up, I realized that my body had developed an unusual swelling."

"Oh dear," said Julian. "It's a good thing that you came to me right away, Garak. Elim." He ran both hands down the front of Garak's chest, feeling the curves of the thoracic ridges arc beneath his palms. "Your heartbeat seems a little bit elevated," he observed. Leaning back, he studied Garak's face. "Your ridges are flushed," he said, "and your pupils are dilated."

"That's interesting." He leaned in closer, and for a moment, slipped genuinely into doctor mode. "I wasn't actually sure if Cardassians would exhibit that particular symptom, since you don't possess a norepinepherine-analog that—" 

Garak reached out and grabbed both of Julian's hands, and with a smooth sideways step that Julian couldn't quite follow, he flipped them around so that Garak had his back against the wall and Julian was leaning forward, balanced against his chest. 

"Erm," Julian said. "Sorry."

"So you can help me, Doctor?" Garak said. He said it lightly, but underneath there was something straining in his voice, something that told Julian this game was coming to an end.

"Of course I can," Julian said, and without further ado, he reached down and wrapped his hand around Garak's penis — or, not a penis exactly, what did they call it? His sst'i, that was it. — and gave it a nice firm tug, just as Garak had done for him two nights before.

Garak hissed in what sounded an awful lot like pain, and reflexively shoved Julian away. Julian stumbled back, awkwardly catching his balance. He felt grateful for his enhanced coordination, for without it he'd probably have been knocked to the floor. 

"Oh, Garak, what—" Julian was at a loss. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Garak turned his face against the door, where it was in shadow. 

"Elim," Julian said. "I'm sorry, but please, you have to tell me. I don't know..." He gestured between them, feeling a sense of futility. There was always something, wasn't there? Always a misunderstanding. Always something in the way.

Finally Garak turned back to Julian. "It's all right," he said. "Why would you? But you can't just..." He gestured down to the bulge between his legs, which had noticeably receded. "It's very fragile, especially when it's not fully emerged." He spoke slowly, as if the words were difficult to push out. "And this fabric, it's far too rough and scratchy to be used like that. That's all."

"Oh!" Julian finally understood. "I'm so sorry. It must be incredibly sensitive, isn't it?" Garak nodded. "That makes sense. I should have realized that it would be different for you. It would be more delicate, wouldn't it, behind that protective covering." 

He hesitated. "Do you still want to try?"

Garak nodded again. He seemed to be having a difficult time speaking; Julian wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

Julian stood and reached out, running his fingers over Garak's trousers until he found the zip. Slowly, watching Garak's face, he drew it down, until the trousers loosened and fell down around Garak's ankles. He wasn't wearing anything underneath.

_Of course not,_ Julian thought. _It makes sense; under normal circumstances, they don't have any sensitive areas to protect down there, the way that most humanoids do._

Under these particular circumstances, however, the pink tip of Garak's sst'i poked out from his bony grey pelvic plate. It was half-receded, but still quite full and round, and slick with Garak's lubricating fluid, which Julian knew from his research was called lu'orsst. 

_Now that,_ Julian thought, _is a useful adaptation._

He looked at it, and then slowly, carefully, reached out one finger and ran it along the bottom of Garak's sst'i. Garak let out a strangled cry, and arched his back. 

This time, it didn't sound like pain. 

Carefully, slowly, Julian swirled his finger around it, around and around, teasing and coaxing until it was fully emerged. At that point, it was roughly the length of an average 24th century Human penis, but around an inch wider in diameter at the base. It was phallic in shape, of course, but the tip had nothing like a foreskin or a glans, and the whole shaft was scaffolded with shallow, curving ridges that held it erect. (Julian couldn't help but imagine how those little ridges might feel inside of him. _Mmm._ ...But that was for another time.) The top of it was smooth and slick, and instead of one opening, it was dotted with a cluster of nine or ten tiny pores where the semen would come out.

An idea struck Julian. "Tell me if this is alright," he said, as he groped around behind himself. His hand touched the blanket; it felt good against his skin. He grabbed it and pulled it around, folding it over once or twice to make a manageable-sized piece. Then he slowly trailed an edge of it over Garak's sst'i, from the base up to the tip.

Based on the sounds Garak was making, it was more than just alright.

Julian grinned and wrapped part of the fabric over Garak's sst'i, grasping it loosely with one fist around the broad base. Slowly, as slowly as he could go and still be moving, he slid his fist from the base up to the tip. This fabric, unlike the other, was slick and soft, and it moved over Garak's skin freely. Julian could feel his palm starting to grow damp with Garak's lu'orsst; the smell of it was weirdly metallic, like ozone, like the smell in the air following a thunderstorm.

Garak groaned and moaned and shuddered, but Julian stubbornly kept to his slow pace, speeding up very gradually over time. Garak cursed, and begged for him to go faster; when he did this, Julian smiled, and stopped his fist completely.

Ignoring Garak's whine of protest, Julian leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the fabric-covered tip, giving it a gentle suck. This caused Garak to make a new and quite fascinating sound. Looking up, Julian saw that his ridges were almost black.

After that, Garak settled back and seemed to resign himself to Julian's teasing pace.

Teasing, but not cruel; Julian did speed up slowly, over time. Garak's sst'i swelled and hardened even further, until it was pulsing and throbbing with every stroke. Eventually, Julian reached a fairly brisk pace, pumping vigorously and grasping the shaft a little harder, though still not as hard as he would have done for a Human man.

After just a few seconds of this rougher treatment, Garak suddenly slammed both of his hands hard against the wall, making Julian jump. A painting tumbled to the floor, a few meters over, but Julian couldn't bring himself to care. Garak threw his head back, and his hips jerked, and he gave a deep-voiced shout. His sst'i began to leak semen into the blanket. 

It took him longer to finish than it would have taken a Human; he stood there shuddering for a couple of minutes, while all of his semen surged its way out. The whole time, his lips moved, but Julian couldn't make out was Garak was saying, aside from his own name.

Then it was Julian's turn to support Garak as he collapsed, his knees gone weak. They both sunk down onto the floor, where Julian spread the blanket out and flipped it over, letting the thick white fluid run off. The other side was still perfectly clean and dry. Julian motioned to Garak, and they rolled up together, wrapped snugly in the blanket.

After a few minutes, when Garak had regained his breath and most of his senses, Julian said, "Congratulations; I think your symptoms are under control. However, I'm afraid there's a chance that the condition might be chronic. You might have to come back for additional treatments, if the swelling returns." The corner of Garak's mouth quirked up, in a smile.

Julian couldn't hold his serious tone; he grinned so widely that his cheeks hurt. "This is awesome," he said, a bit giddily. "Ever since I became a doctor, I've been waiting for a chance to use a line like that."

Garak groaned and rolled over, burying his face in Julian's neck. "You're a witch," he said. "That's the only explanation. There's no other possible reason why I could be in love with a creature who makes ridiculous statements like that."

Julian sucked in a breath at Garak's casual admission, and wrapped his arms around him. They held each other tight.

"I am sorry," Julian said again a few minutes later, "for what happened earlier. To tell you the truth," he said self-consciously, "I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to you. I've searched through every database that I could get my hands on — medical, historical, literary, cinematic — and nowhere could I find one single bit of information about Cardassian sexual practices. Not a single one. Honestly, if it weren't for the relevant anatomical structures, I would have started to doubt whether you people have sex at all."

"Of course not," Garak said. "Such matters are [sacred-private-secret]." The translator did that thing it sometimes did, where it couldn't capture the exact sense of a word, so it mashed several words together to approximate the meaning.

"What does that mean?" Julian asked. "You don't speak of sex at all, even amongst yourselves?"

Garak shook his head. "Only once: between a parent and a child, on his first significant birthday, when he turns nine. After that, never."

"Not even between partners?"

Garak shook his head again, and looked at Julian sideways. "It is [sacred-private-secret]." That untranslatable word, again. "Between partners, there should be no need for words."

Julian toyed with the edge of the blanket. Slowly, he said, "You know that it will have to be a different between us, right?" He laughed nervously. "I mean, we're not the same species. We're not even from the same _class_ of species, really. If this is going to work out, we're going to have to discuss what we can and cannot do, and what we like and do not like. We're probably going to have to talk about it quite a bit. And preferably soon, before the next time that one of us accidentally gets hurt."

Garak rested his head on one cheek, and looked at Julian. "You would do that?" he said. "You would go to such effort, when there are hundreds of younger, softer, more agreeable mammals who come through the station every year? _Why?_ "

Julian stared at Garak, and slowly his mouth curved up in a smile. "For someone who's so observant," he said, "you certainly have a rather large blind spot about one particular topic. Elim, I'm in love with you too." He laughed. "Of course I am. Honestly, I thought that would be rather obvious, by now." After a few moments, Garak started to laugh too.

When they'd subsided, Garak fell silent, and looked speculatively at Julian, who waited. Finally, he said, "If that's how it is, then let's talk about what I can do for you, right now." He leaned in slightly, and Julian became aware that his half-erect cock was pressed into Garak's leg.

"You don't have to do anything if you don't want to," Julian said.

"Oh, I want to," Garak said. "Now, then." He took a deep breath. "Do Human males also enjoy the act of having one's..." He gestured toward Julian's crotch.

"Penis," Julian supplied.

"Penis," Garak continued, "stimulated by the other partner's tongue and mouth?"

Julian laughed, a bit surprised, realizing only then that Garak's knowledge was even more deficient than his own. Which was a bit odd, since Human culture was — to understate things — certainly not lacking in depictions of every sexual act.

But of course, Garak wouldn't have done such research, would he? It was "sacred-private-secret", to him. Most likely, he wouldn't have even had the thought.

"Absolutely," Julian said. "I, personally, enjoy it a great deal." 

Garak smiled, and it was the first genuinely lascivious, flirtatious smile that Julian had ever seen on him. "Excellent," he said, and then he proceeded to pull down Julian's pyjama pants and demonstrate exactly how well he could employ his tongue and mouth.

When Julian was finished — "Your fluid tastes like yamok sauce", Garak commented, wiping a bit of it off the side of his mouth — they curled up together on the blanket on the floor, in the living room, and fell into a few hours of badly-needed sleep.

\------

"How did you know?" Garak asks. It's a couple of days later, and his Julian is sitting at dinner in Garak's quarters. Garak has just finished recounting for him the tale of Nurak and Aterareanhui, and after dinner they will probably have sex. Again. 

Garak can feel his sst'i already swelling in anticipation.

"How did you know exactly the right thing to do?" he continues. "How did you understand the way to turn the archetype on its head? No offense, my dear, but you're usually not so skillful when it comes to symbolism."

"Well," his Julian says, "I guess I was highly motivated to figure this one out." He grins, and Garak cannot help but smile back. It's not his usual plastic smile, his "plain and simple Garak" mask; this one is a real smile, one that Garak can feel all the way back into his headridges.

It's a skill that he thought he had almost lost.

"Also," Julian continues, "I had some really good advice from a wise old man to help me, and that started me out on the right path."

"Really?" Garak comments. "How fascinating. You'll have to introduce me to him sometime, so that I can convey my thanks."

"Oh," Julian says. "As a matter of fact, you already know her."

He grins again, Garak's love, and reaches a hand across the table to clasp Garak's hand. It's a very Human gesture, but Garak doesn't mind that. He allows Julian to interlace their fingers, and squeezes each finger gently when he is done, enjoying the warmth and the smoothness of the skin.

This isn't the ending of their story, of course. Far from it. And there's still plenty of time for everything to go horribly wrong. But despite all of that — thanks to senility, or madness, or just em'yaspokh'a and love — Garak is happy. He's really, genuinely happy. 

He never thought that he, Elim Garak, would think that; but he is writing his own tale, now. 

Perhaps, someday, he'll even tell it to a child.

\------

_And everything was orderly and in its proper place._

THE END


End file.
